To people who abandon poetry, at times…

I never remember my poems.

I can never ever remember a single line I wrote, weeks after I have written them

and I know you think that that’s just sad for a spoken word poet,

but when I look back through the pages of my journal, on a dull day,

every time I reach out to a new story, woven in the same words.

I never remember my poems, and I often do not remember the person who wrote them.

So each time the forgetful me browses through my own life, I get startled to see how far I have come.

On the other day, I opened a random page from my dust-settled diary from 2008

and read the following lines:

“Every swerve of chocolate had inspired a verse

And every crumbled cookie ­ overwhelming tears.

For if love was a disease, we were the biggest hypochondriacs.”


I never remember my poems, and at times I am glad I don’t.

At times I like abandoning them like unwanted children born out of wedlock

of me and that moment in time that I swear to myself never happened.

Some poems I like crumbled and on the floor in the hopes that I can rip that moment from the past

into as many shreds as that moment would have once tried to rip me into;

but it is not easy to disown a history, or rip off a hashtag or a category

even from the unfinished pieces of your life,

trust me I have tried.


I have had my fair share of accidents,

as fair as it gets while still managing to stay alive

because I am not the adventurous type, nor was the person who would sit in dark writing love poems.

and I am not the one to chase after the thrill of being knocked over and over

on the same road that you must take home each day.

Yet it is not easy to maintain safe distances from thumping and adrenaline rushing dooms that are speeding towards you

It is not easy to avoid tumbling into potholes and it is not easy to not fall into love.


I used to teach kids from kindergarten back when I used to write.

and then one day I quit, because I wasn’t a role model good enough for them

for what in this holy world, could I teach them that wouldn’t scar them for life.

I remember walking into the class one day, when i was still lovesick,

with a rhythm in my feet and asked one of the children

“Do you know what a heart is?”

“Well, it’s a heart, it’s weirdly shaped and it kind of beats.”

“at times it beats faster…when you see butterflies, or favorite ice-cream or perhaps a new bike”

“at times it beats slower… and at times it… it doesn’t beat at all”

and a boy in a green pullover, sitting three rows from me, swatted a bug.

He had committed his first murder, and I knew he would remember it, even a few weeks from now.

Death is often hard to forget but it is the battles that we don’t remember

especially when you are only fighting to learn the game.


I never remember my poems because my poems often do not cite the reason for my existence

and I for one, like to be reminded to take long breaths between moments that separate chapters.

At times I remember the punctuation better than I remember the words because even when I am

spiraling downwards with a constant fate that has been assigned to gravity, I know that a comma can save my life.

Perhaps another pause where I can spin another song or at least another epitaph

for the hundreds ‘me’ in a thousand words; because my poems are an alternate dimension

intersecting with my world, each time at a new life.